Would he? How? Should he get out a search warrant or a writ of replevin? This whimsical view of the case only exasperated him the more as it presented the utter hopelessness of approaching her—of ever seeing her again—and, when the dogs came chasing an utterly inconsequential and useless butterfly in his direction, he pelted them with stones until they yelped. Hang the dogs, anyhow. It was all their fault!
Next he blamed himself. If he had only resisted that creek like a man he wouldn’t have been a hundred miles from home without clothes or money, and silly about a girl he had never seen until that day.
Then he blamed the girl. Why, why was she such a confiding and altogether artless and bewitching little fool? She wasn’t! He remembered her eyes and abjectly apologized to the memory of her. She was everything that was sweet and pure and womanly—everything that was desirable in every sense—well-bred, well-schooled, unspoiled of the world, without guile or subterfuge, beautiful, healthy, honest. That had been the only startling thing about her—just honesty. It spoke ill for himself and the world in which he lived that this should have seemed startling! What a wonderful creature she was! By the Eternal, she belonged to him and he meant to have her! She loved him, too!
He sat down on the bank to think over this phase of the question. He had known her several years in the minute and a half since noon, and it was time this foolishness came to an end.
Time flies when youth listens to the fancied strains of Mendelssohn’s Spring Song. He was surprised, presently, to note a strange hush settling down over the woods. A chill vapor seemed to arise from the water. There was a melancholy note in the tweet of the low-flitting birds. The rustling trees softened their murmur to a continuous whisper, soothing and caressing. The tinkle of the creek became more metallic and pronounced. Near by, down the stream, a sudden chorus of frogs burst into croaking, their isolated notes blended by the chirping undertone of the crickets and tree toads. There were other sounds, mysterious, untraceable, but all musical in greater or lesser degree.
He understood at last. These sounds, the rustling leaves, the flitting birds, the tinkling creek, the frogs, tree toads and crickets and those other intangible cadences, these were the instruments of nature’s vast orchestra, playing their lullaby, languorous and sweet, for the drowsy day. It was dusk, and he was desperately in love with Adnah, and he had on a fool bloomer bath suit and no money, and he had to go back into civilization just as he was. Woe, woe, woe and anathema!
At the house he found a table set under a big oak tree back of the kitchen. Supper for one was illumined by the rays of a solitary lantern. Aunt Sarah and Aunt Ann, each with a pistol in her lap, sat grimly to one side. Adnah nor Aunt Matilda were anywhere to be seen, and he divined with a thrill that Aunt Matilda was acting as jailer to the young woman until he should be safely off the premises. Evidently she had been hard to manage. Bless the little girl!
He took off his hat as he approached and bowed respectfully.
“I should like you to know who I am,” he began.
“You will please to eat your supper without conversation,” Aunt Sarah sternly interrupted.
“I wish to pay my addresses to your niece,” he protested, but the two ladies, finding rudeness necessary, clasped their hands to their ears.
“Kindly eat,” said Aunt Sarah, without removing her hands.
He sat down and glared at the food in despair. He thought he heard Adnah’s voice and the sounds of a scuffle in the house, and it gave him inspiration. He arose, and, leaning his hands on the edge of the table, shouted as loudly as he could:
“I am John Melton, of Philadelphia. I will give you as many references as you like. I wish your permission to write to your niece and, later on, to call upon her. May I do so?”
“Are you going to eat your supper?” inquired Aunt Sarah.
He gave up. He could not, as a gentleman, take Aunt Sarah’s hands from her ears and make her listen to what he had to say. He turned sadly away from the table. The armed escort also arose.
“Please lead the way,” requested Aunt Sarah. “The path leads directly from the front of the cottage to the road.”
He had stalked, in dismal silence, almost half way down the winding avenue of trees, moodily watching the gigantic shadows of his limbs leaping jerkily among the shrubbery, when it occurred to him that the women could scarcely carry the lantern and pistols and still hold their ears.
“I am John Melton, of Philadelphia,” he shouted, and looked back to address them more directly. Alas, the pistols reposed in the pockets of the two prim aprons, the lantern smoked askew at Aunt Sarah’s waist, and both women were holding their hands to their ears!
He could not know that they had been whispering about him, however, and really, for man-haters, their remarks had been very complimentary. Not even that ridiculous costume could hide his athletic figure, his good carriage and pleasant address.
They were nearing the road when they heard a woman’s voice shrieking for them to wait, and presently Aunt Matilda came running after them, breathless and excited.
“You must come back to the house at once, all of you,” she panted. “Adnah is wildly hysterical. She insists that she must have this young man, monster or no monster—that she will die without him. I truly believe that she would!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Aunt Sarah. “Come on, then!”
It was Aunt Sarah who swiftly and anxiously led the way. At the door of the parlor she paused and confronted the young man.
“Remember,” she warned, “that however impulsive our poor, misguided niece may appear, you must not kiss her!”
Without waiting for reply she opened the door for him. Adnah, smiling happily through the last of her tears, sprang to meet him, and, seizing his hand, drew him down on the couch beside her.
“I’m going to keep you here always, now,” she declared with pretty authority, as she locked her arm in his and interlaced their fingers.
He looked around at the aunts and suddenly longed for his own clothes. They had drawn their chairs in a close semi-circle about the couch and were helplessly staring. He felt the hot blood burning in his cheeks, on his temples, down the back of his neck.
“You will stay, won’t you?” Adnah anxiously asked him.
“I think I shall take you with me, instead,” he replied, smiling down at her in an attempt to conquer his embarrassment.
Adnah rapturously sighed. The spectators suddenly arose, retiring to the far corner of the room, where they held an excited, whispered consultation. Presently they came back and sat down in the same solemn half-circle. Aunt Sarah ceremoniously cleared her throat.
“You will please to unclasp your hands and sit farther apart,” she directed. This obeyed, she proceeded: “Now, Mr. Nelson—”
“Melton, if you please,” corrected the young man, producing a business card that he had rescued.
“Oh!” exclaimed the aunts, exchanging wondering glances.
“We understood that it was Nelson,” murmured Aunt Matilda. It seemed that the hands had not been so tightly clasped over the ears as he had thought.
Aunt Sarah gravely adjusted her glasses.
“’John Melton, Jr.,’” she read. “’Representing Melton and Melton, Administrators and Real Estate Dealers. General John A. Melton. John Melton, Jr.’”
There was a suppressed flutter of excitement and again the three aunts exchanged surprised glances.
“I